Or, by another name, we can call her Depression. Or a “frenemy” — if that makes you more comfortable.
We go way back, the bitch and I.
Despite medication, she drops back into town every few years. Sometimes, I’m able to tell her to go to hell. Sometimes, well, I fall victim to her cutting words and machinations.
I’ve taken anti-depressents for years. The first time was in college, when I couldn’t even bother to crawl out of bed for exams.
In 2007/2008, I came down with mono, followed by post-viral syndrome. And there she was again, whispering in my ear, tagging at my heels, telling me I couldn’t beat the illness, couldn’t overcome my body’s … er … over-zealous immune response to a stupid virus.
I lost a year to my frenemy.
But come August 2008, I fought back. And yeah, I won. Ha.
The next several years were MINE. Not hers.
And now she’s back again, intent on reclaiming what she thinks is hers.
I know the signs — the inability to get moving in the morning, the reluctance to do anything with my kids on the weekends, the sense that I just can’t handle whatever life throws my way, no matter how small or silly. This desire to just stay in bed or on the couch, where the most difficult decision is choosing between HGTV and A&E.
I know her — and her ability to take over my life — to pull me down to the absolute depths of despair, when nothing means anything.
Today, I finally admitted — to my pastor — that she’s back in town. Hell, she’s not just back in town. She’s moved into my house.
My husband, of course, has known. He always knows. He’s the guy who pulls me up, pushes me onward, makes me remember why I matter.
So I’ll call my doctor. I’ll slog onward, toward spring, when sunlight and warmer weather will yank me out of this despair. I’ll remember that one, small — relatively speaking — physical impediment isn’t the predictor of my future. It isn’t indicative of what or who I am.
Those of you who are intimately acquainted with my frenemy — you know.
You know that she’s relentless and tireless and just plain mean.
And you’ll also understand how frustrating it is to feel that just one teensy glitch in your life is enough to draw her back into town.
But we’ll get through this. And in the next few weeks, I hope, the bitch will flee my life. Because there is NO room for her here.